


Spies Like Us

by Vathara



Series: Urban Legends [34]
Category: Airwolf, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Crossover, Don't copy to another site, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 06:29:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16887384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vathara/pseuds/Vathara
Summary: Investigating the Russian Stargate facility, past and present intersect.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "The Russian Stargate facility was set up in a decommissioned experimental power station on the Siberian Plateau, at 97 degrees E longitude, 72 degrees N latitude, near the Kuybyshev Airbase." Okay. The Russian city of Kuybyshev (a.k.a. Kujbysev) does exist, and probably does have an airbase. However, it's at 50.09 E, 53.12 N, not that far from the Volga River. The coordinates given for the Russian facility, in contrast, place it very close to Pol'kino, almost on top of the Cheta River, off the edge of the Siberian Plateau - and in the middle of a swamp. Go figure. (Then again, Airwolf put Polk County in west Texas when it's actually in east Texas.) So I'm futzing a little with geography here.

"And as you can plainly see, Dr. Jackson," Dr. Baklan Naberezhnyi stated in fluent English, eyes cold, "This facility is not in use."

Daniel gave the dark-haired Russian science officer a polite nod, trying not to pay too much attention to the way Dr. Svetlana Markov fidgeted, or the way Naberezhnyi's military escort glared at his and Sam's Marine escort. And vice-versa. The Russians were visibly armed, if only with submachine guns; after all, they were supposed to be guarding the 'Gate here. The Americans weren't _supposed_ to be armed; supposedly, they were only doing a friendly inspection. Just a formality. After all, the Cold War was over, and everyone trusted each other. Right?

He'd have bet his last Egyptological text that Major Channing's men were carrying enough high explosives to turn this building into a black pit in the taiga.

_Try not to think about it_. The Siberian Plateau facility certainly looked disused. Cold, dusty, echoing with emptiness. He especially liked the spider-webs over the 'Gate chevrons. Nice touch.

And he didn't believe a second of it.

"Are we done here?" Major Channing murmured, face expressionless.

_As in, do I get to blow the place up?_ Daniel hid a grimace. What was it with military types and things that went boom?

"I'd like some time to look at the 'Gate itself," Sam said neutrally.

Right. She didn't trust the spider-webs either.

"Certainly," Svetlana said easily. "We may speak of our investigations on its substance, yes? A most curious crystal, indeed."

Oh, good. Pick Sam's brain for anything the Russian government hadn't had the chance to find out yet. Even he could see that coming. "Dr. Naberezhnyi?" The linguist smiled winningly. "Since this facility is empty, you don't mind if the rest of us... poke around a little?" He waved a hand toward the maze of pipes leading off into darkness. "I didn't get a chance to see what was back there last time."

"Very little." Naberezhnyi's smile never wavered. Or warmed.

A year ago, Daniel might have missed the stillness in Svetlana's gaze, the slight shift of foot from heel to toe, as if she were getting ready to run - or rage. "Supplies," the Russian astrophysicist agreed. "Paperwork. Old soccer balls."

_Supplies. In an unused facility. Right_. "Oh, I could do with boring, trust me." Daniel shrugged, heading that way at a fast walk. "So you play soccer here when it warms up? As warm as it gets here, anyway... is it dusty, or more muddy? I haven't been in Russia that much. Officially."

Not that he expected to find anything. Dr. Naberezhnyi, whoever he was, was no dummy. But who knew? Maybe he'd annoy his Russian hosts so much they'd try to shoot him, and Sam and the Marines would shoot back, and everybody could get back to plain, honest, open hostility.

_I really_ have _been around Jack O'Neill too much_...

* * *

  
"We're going to be found," Michael Archangel murmured coldly, hand on a throwing knife. "Officially, Naberezhnyi's not KGB anymore. Nor even FSB. But..."

"Yeah." Stringfellow Hawke watched the other way down artificially-dusty rows of boxes and equipment, sharp ears tracking the mingled Russian-American group stalking toward this section of the Siberian facility. Their Russian-issue cold-weather jackets, essential to even a late summer visit to this frozen piece of Earth, blended nicely with the shadows, and they were both skilled at silent moving, but there were too many people, and not enough empty space. One wrong move, and they would be seen.

_Damn it, there weren't supposed to be any Americans here!_

Hell of it was, there wasn't supposed to be _anyone_ here. Not if the Russians had been adhering to their agreement about the Stargate.

Archangel didn't believe they were. His lovely, efficient staff had noted a distinct gap in the satellite coverage the Firm had access to; a gap that correlated all too well with this facility. A facility none of them would have known existed, if they hadn't tapped the SGC computers.

A facility the Joint Chiefs would have no reason not to let the Firm see... if this installation was truly off-line.

Apparently the President and the Joint Chiefs, with significant help from a certain Senator Kinsey, had decided that the man who'd consistently denied them a fleet of Airwolves could not be trusted with the knowledge of such a delicate project as Stargate Command. Oh, the Firm could know all they wanted about the Hivemind; wreckage from their aborted invasion was scattered all over the planet, it'd be hard for Firm agents to miss it. But the Firm hadn't been let in on one scrap of data about the numerous _other_ alien threats out there.

String hoped Kinsey slept very poorly at night. Cutting Archangel off from need-to-know data was a good way to shorten your life expectancy.

_Targeting?_

A feathery rustle in the back of his mind; innocent query, with just a touch of predatory interest.

Airwolf.

_We're okay, Angel_ , String answered silently. Feeling his breath slow involuntarily, as the echo of Michael's anxiety eased; they _knew_ Caitlin would bring the Lady in, if they needed her. One way or another, they'd make it out of here.

Of course the goal was to get out without a shot fired. This far into Russia, they'd had to strip Airwolf's armament to the bare minimum to keep enough fuel on hand to run for the border. They had a few minutes of 30 mm, max; just enough to dissuade pursuit, not enough to blow it from the sky.

And breaking into someone's facility was so much more effective when they never realized you'd been there.

Which was why Archangel was here. He read Russian, a skill the rest of Airwolf's pilots lacked. With his help, they'd gotten in, found the pertinent files, scanned them, and were now hoping to be gone before anyone had a chance to notice so much as a ghost on the radar.

Or at least, that's why Archangel had said he was here. Not that String was convinced. Plenty of Archangel's angels spoke Russian. It wasn't as if they didn't know who flew Airwolf.

But Michael hated being lied to. And when he was, Archangel, being Archangel, always wanted a better look.

Archangel would kill to keep them from being discovered, String knew. They both would. Even an American. Rules of the Game.

"So - let me get this straight - anyone can use their head, but only the goalie can use his hands?"

_"Da."_ Naberezhnyi sounded thoroughly, totally frustrated.

Not that uncommon, when dealing with the owner of that innocent voice. String's ears pricked up. _What the hell is he-?_

Never mind what Dr. Jackson was doing here. String might not read people the way Archangel could, but he'd seen the archaeologist under fire. The pilot almost smiled. "This way."

"Hawke-"

"Trust me."

And the spy was a gray ghost at his side, blond brow lifted over the dark side of his glasses. "Unnerving," Michael murmured.

_Makes two of us_ , String thought, guiding them through the maze of dust and pipes just ahead of scattering bunches of armed personnel. The idea of Archangel trusting anyone, let alone him...

Yet it was almost reflex by now. For both of them. Airwolf touched parts of the mind that didn't think, didn't hesitate - only ran a running calculation of _threat/non-threat_.

Trusting a fellow pilot was not a threat. No matter what the rational mind might say.

Even when that fellow pilot was about to do something theoretically insane.

String _listened_ , using Airwolf's presence to ground him as he spread senses wide to find precisely where his targets were. _One more second... they've split up...Naberezhnyi's backing up...Marine major's feet shuffling, turning to keep an eye on him_ -

For a few seconds, Dr. Jackson was out of any enemy - or friendly - view.

Just long enough to lunge out of their quiet alley in the boxes, grab a shocked archaeologist by mouth and shoulders, and drag him in with a quick "Shhh!"

* * *

  
_Grabbed in Russia - never live it down - Jack's going to skin Channing alive - Sam!-_

Daniel jabbed an elbow back at the man holding him, felt it slide past ribs, bit back an ancient Egyptian curse as another pair of hands grabbed on. "Are you out of your mind?" a vaguely familiar voice breathed. "They'll see he's gone-"

"Not for a second. Daniel." An intense blue gaze met his; eyes he'd last seen surrounded by dark face-paint, in a meadow in Colorado. Familiar eyes, even though someone had worked a subtle magic with makeup to shape the cheekbones to more Russian lines. "Dr. Jackson," String said, low and intense. "We need your help."

The covert pilot? Here? Why? And who was that with him? Not Dom, this time. Worrisome. "String?" Daniel mouthed.

The pilot nodded. Daniel took in the heavy Russian jackets, the native uniforms; the silenced pistols each carried, less-subtle counterpart to black-painted knives meant for a quick death. "You're not supposed to be here-" the archaeologist started, low and indignant.

"Now, there might be the understatement of the decade," the blond stranger murmured. He cocked an ear toward the sound of stomping boots, motioned them back and around a corner temporarily out of sight. "Strictly speaking, we're _not_ here. And we'd prefer to leave here still not having been here. If you take my meaning."

"Why should I help you? Who _are_ you?" But Daniel moved with them, keeping almost the same level of silence. They were _good._

"We don't have time for that," the blond said coolly. Another dusty corner; another shred of Russian uniform, walking just the wrong way to catch sight of them. How on Earth were they managing that? "Need to know. You don't."

"Make time." Daniel glared at the two spies. "I won't tell anyone who you are."

The blond smiled without humor. "Don't promise what you can't keep, Dr. Jackson."

The archaeologist stopped dead in his tracks. For a second, half-dark glasses were out of sight, the blond mustache cast into shadow by one of the flickering bulbs overhead, leaving the tan face younger, almost familiar...

"But why didn't she promise?" A rare, blinding instant of rage at the piano; a younger Daniel stifled it in horror. How could he be mad at Mother? "Why didn't she promise she wouldn't leave me?"

_"Because you don't lie to your people in the Game," the teenager said bluntly, fingers pale on the cover of the keys. Spots were fading off his fingers, but they still twitched with the urge to scratch. "Because you don't promise what you can't keep."_

"Michael?"

The blond stranger blinked, taken aback.

Daniel swallowed dryly. He could still be wrong, he could... "What's a piano?"

"Dr. Jackson, I know perfectly well you play the..." Michael's voice cut off; he swayed a step back. "Daniel?"

Firm hands grabbed them both, tugged the two taller men out into the main corridor. "Talk later," String bit out. "Walk."

* * *

  
_Provide air support?_

Caitlin O'Shannessy patted the side of her console absently. "Give 'em some time to work the problem, Angel. They get into trouble, they'll call."

_Camouflage netting extends time needed to respond to pilot hazard_. A breath of worry; an internal shift, as if Airwolf's AI settled back on mental haunches.

"Yeah." Caitlin eyed the reflective layer over the windscreen that damped their IR signature, pictured the net's external shadow-pattern of grays and greens that would make any stray observer think a covert helicopter was just another stand of Siberian taiga. "But if we have to come in there blasting, they're gonna be shooting already. You know that."

Reluctant agreement. _Yes._  
_Large concentrations of known hostile forces in area_.  
_Kuybyshev Airbase active_.  
_MiG flights within range to present tactical difficulties_.

Oh, yeah. It'd be fox and hounds all the way back to U.S. airspace if they got caught. The Lady was fast, but anybody could get boxed if there were enough MiGs playing. They'd have to slam-dance through low-level maneuvers, feint and double and dive through cover like a gray fox into tangled cypress swamps. And even that might not work if the Russians had their act together and luck broke the wrong way.

Marella already had the codes to lock them out of the Firm's systems if Archangel went down. Not to mention the signed orders that would put her in charge of Archangel's section, spiking Zeus or Apollo's Committee wheel before it could grind over them all.

And none of that was what was really tying her guts in acid knots.

_Potential for off-world danger if Russian Stargate activated, Russian forces contacted Jaffa/Goa'uld/immature symbiotes_.

"Makes me squirrelly too, Lady." Archangel hadn't told them _everything_. That was a given. Plenty of stuff on the Goa'uld was need-to-know; and they didn't need to know. Not unless it shot at them.

Or tried to take them over....

Caitlin shivered despite Airwolf's heaters. Those files Michael _had_ lain out, down to the last gruesome detail. Archangel was sure as hell no angel, but he'd never send an agent into danger he wouldn't face himself.

And the thing that had infested Sergeant Rebecca Courtland was something Caitlin never wanted to face. Ever.

_Medical data indicates alien species, Goa'uld, attaches to critical nerve junctions_ , Airwolf noted. _Substantial overlap between attacked neurons and neurons involved in neural link_.

Meaning if one of them were infested, the Lady'd be the second to know.

_Files indicate Sgt. Courtland able to temporarily resist Goa'uld takeover_.  
_Known difference between Sgt. Courtland and other infested SGC personnel: minor empathic link_.  
_Known differences between Sgt. Courtland and Airwolf pilots: major empathic links, internal shielding, access to Airwolf Bethancourt protocols_.  
_Bethancourt protocols successfully tested, Hivemind invasion_.  
_High probability pilots would be temporarily resistant to Goa'uld takeover_.

Meaning they might fight it long enough for Airwolf and whoever wasn't jumped to pump them full of sedatives, then raid Area 51 for a Goa'uld-killer. Maybe. "Rather not find out the hard way, Angel."

_Yes_. A hug of fur and feathers; like snuggling up against a friendly falcon. _Positive outcome: return intact pilots to current base of operations_.

Eagle Lake. Where a certain gruff Italian would be waiting as soon as he'd finished off his latest Hollywood stunts. "Already invaded Russia enough for this year," Dom had said when Archangel first laid out the job. "With Sinjin heading out for the Company, somebody's got to mind Le. You kids have fun."

Oh yeah. Sitting in broad daylight in the middle of Siberia, half a mile from a classified-beyond-Top-Secret facility, waiting for your partners to get discovered. Or worse. _And_ hoping you'd be able to sneak back out without getting shot at. Or shot down. Real fun.

The ex-cop grinned. _Sure beats midnight stakeouts_.

* * *

  
_Trust Daniel to get lost in the middle of a search party_. Sam scanned dispersed Russians and Americans alike, searching for a familiar, distracted face. Major Channing hadn't even noticed Daniel wasn't in sight.

_That's why the Colonel made sure you were along_.

And she'd lost him too. Damn it, it just wasn't good to split up SG-1. They all knew how each other thought; knew what each was likely to do, in a hundred different environments. This was foreign, potentially hostile terrain where Daniel spoke the language. _Of course_ he was likely to wander off at the merest whisper of anything that might prove their suspicions.

And if Teal'c and the Colonel had been along, that wouldn't have been a problem. One of them would have hared after their errant archaeologist, dragging him back by the scruff of the neck from whatever he'd managed to fall into. With both parties in the dragging complaining all the way. Though Teal'c's complaints were more a certain stiff line to his lips, and a slightly-crooked eyebrow at the hapless anti-survival instincts of a certain too-bright Tau'ri.

But Dr. Markov had distracted her with a technical question, which - according to the agreement they had with Russia - Sam was supposed to answer. Yet given that they thought the Russians were cheating, she wasn't supposed to answer too much.

And in the middle of figuring out what to tell and what to gloss over, Daniel had vanished-

No. Sam stifled a relieved sigh. There he was with a pair of Russians; one tall and blond, one shorter, maybe an inch over her height. No blood, no obviously broken bones, no signs of coercion of any sort. _Thank god_.

Then she caught the dazed look on Daniel's face - the swift sweep of determined blandness over gentle features as blue eyes noted the others about him - and felt her stomach drop toward her combat boots. _Oh, boy_.

But nothing happened. The blond Russian only exchanged a few rumbling words with Dr. Jackson, gave him a curt, polite nod, and limped off with his lean, wary-eyed companion.

_Limped?_

Slight. But it was a limp; same side as that dark-covered eye.

And no one she'd seen here limped. No one.

"Dr. Jackson?" _Now_ Major Channing noticed Daniel'd been out of sight; she could see the _Oh shit!_ on his face, followed fast by _Still alive, maybe O'Neill will leave me some hide after all_. "Everything all right, sir?"

"Ah... yeah. Everything's fine."

And Sam's heart lurched. She might not be a linguist, but she spoke pretty good Daniel. _Fine_ meant _I hurt, but nothing blew up in my face, so let it go_.

Trouble. Definitely trouble.

She waded through the crowd. "Daniel?" She wasn't the colonel, but she could still pack _are you okay_ and _do I have to shoot someone_ into that one word.

He gave her a dazed blink, followed by a shy smile. "Ah... we should finish up here, right?"

_Translation: something important happened, but I can't talk about it here_ , Sam thought fast. Damn. Damn it all. "Yes. Yes, we should."

Her gaze slid toward the two Russians heading for the door out. Crossed Naberezhnyi's.

Naberezhnyi, who was also frowning at that limp.

Sam glanced away. Tried to keep it casual.

_Daniel, what have you gotten us into?_

* * *

  
_It cannot be him._

Dr. Baklan Naberezhnyi shepherded the American inspection team out of the Siberian Plateau facility, thinking furiously. Of course the Americans meant to doublecross Russia. Had they not always, from the time of the Great Patriotic War? Sending their soldiers into Mother Russia, as if the Revolution were no better than those devilish Germans! _Of course_ their agreement to share data and technology was merely a sham, meant to grant the United States the upper hand when those alien horrors invaded once more. He had FSB's less-classified reports on Senator Kinsey; he knew the man would permit no less.

Which was why they had allowed this inspection in the first place. How else could his team of biologists gain access to a former host? They had so many tests to run, to determine how best to slay these Goa'ulds; so many, many tests.

A shame. Major Carter seemed an intelligent woman. But the motherland - the planet! - came first.

It could be that the Americans had learned of their plans. He had held them secret as he could, kept the full knowledge to only his superior and his team. Even the soldiers who would help him take Carter would only know this woman had disappeared into the wilds of Siberia. No one should know. Yet... American spies had learned far darker secrets.

But would even Michael Archangel be so brazen as to investigate the Russian Stargate facility _himself?_

No. Of course not. Send a Deputy Director into the heart of Siberia? That would be foolish.

And Archangel was many things, but never a fool.

No, it was merely an idle thought, stirred by one more injured Russian soldier. A bad memory, dragged to the surface of his mind by the echoing walls. Without the regular personnel at hand these walls vibrated with the Siberian winds, echoing with the screams of those who had died here when the Extreme Measures Protocol was unleashed. Those of the American SGC might know many things, but they would never know that the non-persistent nerve gas they knew as Substance 35 had actually been developed by one of their own people.

Vladimir Rostoff. For over twenty-two years, a loyal Russian. Husband, father; one of the chief microbiologists at the Sverdlovsk facility... before he had slain the others.

For over twenty-two years, a traitorous American Firm agent. It was enough to make a man weep.

Vladimir Rostoff, who with his stolen neurotoxin and his family disappeared in a single night, extracted by that black fiend _Airwolf_.

_Airwolf_. Naberezhnyi's mouth watered. Ah, _there_ would be a prize; perhaps the equal of any craft Russia might spirit through the 'Gate. Fast, armed; with sensor and computer capabilities even the most conservative estimate placed as decades ahead of anything in the Russian arsenal. Even the Americans had not created another.

Archangel was no fool, true. Yet the Firm's Deputy Director had been known to be... impetuous. From Rostoff's extraction, to the faked and then true death of German agent Maria von Furster, to his _arrangement_ with the pilot Hawke...

Could it be?

No. Not possible.

And yet...

It would do no harm to keep the Americans watched, surely. Nor to ask the local air command at Kuybyshev Airbase for news of any - unusual incidents.

For if Archangel - _or Airwolf_ \- were here...

The situation could become very interesting, indeed.

* * *

  
_He wants me to meet him. Meet_ them, Daniel thought, drumming fingertips on the tape-mended edge of the truck seat's padding. For once, he wasn't upset that their Russian "hosts" had once more kept him and Sam from travelling together. Sam would have wanted him to talk, and he...

Gods. He wasn't sure what to _think_ , much less what to say.

_Michael wants me to meet him. Here. In the middle of Siberia. Alone. Do I look like an idiot?_

But a couple of stressed-out Marines would be noisy as a couple of bears, and Major Channing would never leave his men, and Sam wouldn't help him sneak off to meet with a spy on general principles. Especially not _this_ spy.

_Catastrophe in a white suit_ , Jack had called him. Michael Coldsmith-Briggs, Deputy Director of the Firm - whatever that was. A man who could make NORAD nervous just by showing up. Who supposedly hadn't been "in the field" in years.

Michael Wolfe. A teenager who'd shown him how to stroke music out of ivory, or break into cookie jars. Who'd held him as he cried in the night; no harsh words, no soothing lies. Just a careful, silent presence with a box of tissues; a warm arm to lean into until dawn.

A spy.

What was a _Deputy Director_ doing in Russia?

_Should I meet him? Why? What does he want?_

The thoughts chased themselves through Daniel's mind as they drove through fading afternoon sun. Lurched and jostled, like the trucks down the winding road back to the small village of Iablan - which did, in fact, have the apple trees it was named after; small orchards of cold-hardy varieties that could have taken a Maine winter without flinching. Of course, he'd been assured by the head orchard-grower this morning, _these_ varieties had been developed in Russia. There was no truth to those rumors of seeds exchanged with strange American travelers in Georgia. None.

"Of course not," the linguist had replied innocently. Showing not a hint of impatience as their Russian hosts escorted the American team through every potential point of interest in this small settlement, from the orchards down to the small, cranky methane generator run off the leavings from the sheep byres. Nice sheep, actually, as far as sheep went; some white, others shades of brown or black, some with patchy patterns that almost matched the locals' multicolored sweaters.

It'd been a delaying tactic. Of course. One more in a series of delays on their way to check the Russians' 'Gate; one more chance for their hosts to sweep evidence under the rug. One more straw on the backs of Sam and the Marines alike; used to action, the rest of the Americans were distinctly... twitchy.

Daniel didn't feel twitchy. Annoyed, yes; he really, really hated to be lied to. And Naberezhnyi and his crew _were_ lying. Through their teeth.

But the people of Iablan weren't lying. No more than the usual Russian boast of how _their_ country was better, more beautiful, than any other in the world.

He wouldn't go that far. It wasn't Abydos, or Colorado. It wasn't home.

But yes... yes, it was beautiful.

And if some of the seeds for the trees, even some of the seedlings, had come from other places... still, they'd been nurtured here. Grown here, despite all Siberia could throw at them, cared for by people as stubborn and enduring as the taiga itself.

People. Gods, he'd missed people, their last, whirlwind visit to the Plateau. Svetlana and her crew hadn't been _people_ to him, then; just another cold group of military minds who'd looked to use the Stargate for their own purposes and gotten in way over their heads, killing people in the process. Forty-seven human lives; researchers, soldiers, any hapless innocent cook or records-clerk on the base, all wiped out in a strangling instant of panic and nerve gas. Not to mention whatever might have happened to those alien living-water entities they'd _experimented_ on.

But Sachinich of the Siberian orchards, his stout, skeptical wife Elizarek, six-year-old strawberry-blonde Maluchka of the missing two front teeth, who was so proud of the parti-colored lamb _she_ had found nestled in straw one cold February morning - they were people.

Daniel pressed a cheek against the chill glass window of the truck, thinking. The folk of Iablan were people. People he could understand. People he could have spent a lifetime getting to know, instead of the weeks or days or - gods help them - _hours_ he usually had on SG-1's first-contact missions...

_I'm lonely_.

Loneliness that had cut like a knife, that instant he'd recognized Michael.

It shook him, still; the intersection of past and living present. Things just didn't work that way. Academia, Abydos, Nick, his parents... the past abandoned you, always. Cast you out, to make your way as best you could. Or die.

He'd considered dying. The past cut like an endless ribbon of razors; shattered shards of memory and happiness, slicing deep the moment you stopped to catch your breath. The past was best covered over, fled from, left to weathering time. The past couldn't save you.

The past didn't send in a covert helicopter to pull you out of a tomb raider's clutches.

_Breathe. Just breathe_.

Rough jar of glass against skin. Their trucks were stopping.

Daniel sucked in half-warmed air, composed his face as the first Marine exited his truck. Noted the scattered small groups of villagers on the stone-lined street, all of whom just happened to have rugs to beat out, festival gear to polish up, or gossip to exchange before nightfall within a casual glance of the Army-olive vehicles. Of course. _Nice to know some things are a human constant_.

"So what are they saying?" Sam asked in an undertone, catching her breath after staying one stubborn step behind Major Channing.

"Oh, look, the Americans are invading again," Daniel answered wryly.

"They think we're an invasion?" Channing's brows were a low, dark bar. His finger twitched, trigger-ready.

"No... it's a figure of speech..." Gods, he wished Jack were here. Things seemed so much clearer when Colonel O'Neill was on the case. So much more... black and white.

_"You never lie to your people,"_ Michael's voice echoed out of memory. _"Everything else is shades of gray."_

"They're just curious," Sam backed him up. "I mean, look around you, Major. This is... a bit of a backwater. We're probably the most exciting thing to happen all year." The astrophysicist grinned. "No wonder they're grabbing the chance for a party. I don't know how you're going to tell them you can't have even a cup of vodka, Daniel."

"I'll figure something out." Iablan was a backwater, with most people his age in traditional peasant garb, even if some of the teenagers had more modern styles. It wouldn't be that easy to blend in if he wanted to slip away. Not now, at least. Maybe later, after full dark; the American lines of his cold-weather gear wouldn't be so noticeable then. A quick study of the local gait, shift his Russian to the right accent... he should be able to pass. Especially given the party-

_Oh. My. Gods_. Daniel licked his lips, felt the wind bite them. _I'm going to do this. I'm actually going to do this._

_Why?_


	2. Chapter 2

"That was Daniel?" Caitlin leaned on her co-pilot's headrest, fixed a hazel gaze on the man currently curled into the engineer's seat. "Your Daniel?"

"Yes," Michael said shortly, not quite trusting his voice. The painkiller he'd taken to infiltrate the facility was wearing off, and his knee throbbed like a mad blacksmith had gone to work. It was good to be safe, inside Airwolf's armor-plated confines, good to be warm...

So why did he feel as if he'd stepped into the midst of a tundra blizzard?

_Pilot transmitting shock/anger/combat readiness_. Airwolf was a notched arrow in the back of his mind, ready to aim at any and all enemies. _Targeting?_

_No, Angel,_ he thought back. _No targeting._

Not yet.

_They did that to Daniel. They did_ that _to_ Daniel.

For a moment Archangel cursed his own memory. An operative's finely-trained recall brought all the relevant details of Dr. Jackson's file to mind, each more chilling than the last. Academic position, wife, home - all lost. Injury upon injury. Confined as insane. _Raped_ by that alien psychopath Hathor...

And now there was fire; a blaze of sheer, unrelenting fury. Rage that choked breath and sight from him, made him wish for an Uzi and a wall of targets.

It was one thing to read, and wince, as the Firm's Deputy Director investigating the SGC. To determine, coolly and calmly, that the Pentagon had no idea what games they were playing with their first contact team's lives. To decide that whoever was in charge of seeing to the SGC's morale and mental health had screwed up royally, and something had to be done before key personnel were too damaged to salvage.

But to know it had happened to _Daniel_...

Hand on his shoulder; a known touch, not an enemy. "Deep breath," String said bluntly, gray flight suit rustling as he crouched beside the spy in the engineer's compartment. "In. Out."

"Hawke-"

"Breathe," the pilot ordered, in tones that would brook no argument. "Michael. Look at me."

_I can't - god, I want to kill - I can't_ -

"Look at me." Gentler now, fingers kneading taut muscles. "I know what this is, Michael. I know."

Of course. Michael let some of the anger sigh out, leaned into knowing fingers. Of course String would know this fury. He'd lived with it for over fourteen years. "I only... I only knew him a week."

"Brothers last forever."

"He wasn't-"

"He coulda been," Caitlin cut in, knuckles white on her headrest. "You looked after him, right? You and your Momma?" Red brows drew down, gazing into old pain. For all her manifold disagreements with her family, O'Shannessy would be by them in an instant if trouble threatened. "Leaves a mark."

Frightening thought. Archangel had spent so much of his life avoiding ties, avoiding anything that might cloud an operative's cool judgment-

And lost it all on a Van Nuys airfield, with one look into aching blue eyes.

Eyes that now pinned him in place, cool and grim. "Give me a name."

_Give me a name and I'll kill them_.

Not an offer to be lightly discarded. Stringfellow Hawke was a consummate killer, cold and accurate as a sniper's round. Law, country, morality - none of that mattered to Hawke.

Family. Friends. His lake. His word. Nothing else bound Airwolf's commander.

Intellectually, Michael knew that should concern him. Operatives were supposed to be reliable. Bound by oath and law, answerable to Congress, the President, and ultimately the American people.

But operatives were human, and humans didn't fight and die for abstracts. String counted him as a friend, incredible as they both still found that fact. Him. Michael Archangel.

And so Archangel's people became _my people_ , just as America was _where my lake is_ and Jason Locke's oft-annoying branch of the Company was _my brother's people_.

Airwolf couldn't be in safer hands.

One more deep breath; Michael let it sigh out long and slow, shook his head. "As they say, never attribute to malice what can equally well be explained by stupidity. Our armed forces don't exactly have a good track record for recognizing there's only so much a sane human being can take." Which only added acid to the fury. Intelligence agencies knew the limits of the human spirit. If Daniel had been one of _his_...

String backed off, eyed the spy thoughtfully. "If he were one of yours, you'd have pulled him out by now."

"If possible." Sometimes it wasn't. Sometimes an operative was in so deep, as Rostoff had been, you simply couldn't rotate them out for rest.

But even deep undercover in Russia, Vladimir had family. Friends. The hope that one day, if all went well, he could finally come home.

_Daniel_...

"You think he's going to come."

Michael leaned back in the engineer's seat, regarded a skeptical Hawke. "I believe I've snared his curiosity, yes."

Caitlin hooked an arm around her headrest, skewered them both with a wry glance. "You wouldn't just lean on that, Michael. Even if Daniel is more curious than a litter full of kittens." She gave him a nod. "C'mon. Give."

The spy shook his head. "It's nothing-"

_Michael Archangel registered brief empathic spike_ , Airwolf cut in. _Detected: grief/weariness/surprise. High probability unregistered passenger, Daniel Jackson, in acute emotional distress._

"It was just an instant," Michael admitted reluctantly. A sharp, frightening instant; like the moment he'd first looked Stringfellow Hawke in the eye, and _known_ this man would be his. "It could well have been my imagination, based on what we know from his record..."

_No.  
Echoed through full link.  
Accurate reading_.  
_Currently tracing intermittent contact, full link, Michael Archangel.  
Foreign frequencies detected.  
Frequencies human.  
Probability 90% foreign contact is unregistered passenger, Daniel Jackson.  
Attempting to project safety/curiosity/welcome_.  
_Odds of success: unknown._

Caitlin whistled. "You think you can reel him in, Lady?"

_Possible_.

String shot the Tactical screen a hard look. "She can tug, Michael. She can't pull you in."

"File says he's no dummy," Caitlin agreed. "If I bumped into an old friend in the middle of a top-secret facility, in the middle of _Siberia_ -" the ex-cop spread empty hands.

"True." Archangel rubbed fingers over the silver head of his cane, glanced at the clock to gauge the approach of night. Felt the creep of darkness toward them in his bones, as Airwolf checked light levels in preparation for flight. This was old ground, familiar ground. Frighteningly familiar, to one who'd made a life running agents. "But Dr. Jackson's had to walk away from every culture he's been interested in. Academia, Abydos, all the peoples he's met through the Stargate. SG-1 is first contact; he may return for treaties and the like, but he can never spend enough time to become part of a culture."

String considered that, eyes hooded. "So what makes now different enough to want to come to you?"

"Now he's stuck surrounded by a culture that may allow him to study it, but will never accept him as part of it," Archangel said coldly. "Humans have limits, Hawke. He's near his."

Interest sparked in that blue gaze. "You want to run him."

"What?" Caitlin burst out.

Archangel shrugged, all too aware of Airwolf's insignia on his gray-clad shoulders. "Better me than NID."

"What?"

String gave her a quick, quelling look. "You think he's that close."

"Marella checked the odds," the Firm's Deputy Director said flatly. "We have three possibilities. First, and least likely, he quits. If the government allows that, he falls out from under their official protection; your guess is as good as mine who'd grab him first. Personally I'd prefer the Russians, he's quite good at reducing tensions, but NID has more in-country operatives." Two fingers lifted. "Second... he's been under a great deal of strain, and there is a history of mental illness in his family tree."

String's eyes narrowed. "You think he could crack."

"The SGC's already institutionalized him once without cause," Michael replied darkly. _And I didn't know. They had_ Daniel _locked up, convinced he was losing his mind, and I didn't know_... He couldn't shake the image of the eight-year-old Ariella Coldsmith-Briggs had coaxed out of unbearable grief that wild week, bound and sedated in padded walls. "I think, if things continue as they have been, he could end up damaged to the point he's no longer Daniel Jackson. And that would be a crime."

"Don't like those." Caitlin bit her lip. "He's an _American_."

"Option three," Michael said quietly. Wondering, for the first time in a very long time, what his mother might think of what he was about to do. _She was in the Game. She'd understand._ "He looks for help. And NID, much as we might not wish to claim them, is also American."

"Damn." The former Texan shook her head, eyes closed; as if she could shake away reality. "But he was your friend, Michael. And you want to use him."

"I _use_ everyone, Ms. O'Shannessy," Archangel said bluntly. "It's my job." _And never let her see how much it hurts_...

Callused fingertips brushed against his cheek, rough echo of the feathery touch in his mind. "Damn stubborn as a left-footed mule _idiot_ ," Caitlin bit out, hand still outstretched. "Why can't you just say you don't know any other way to help him?"

"There are always other ways," Archangel said coolly. Trying not to flinch, as String's fingers settled against his wrist. "It's my job to find other ways..." And why couldn't they just hate him, so he could wall off his heart and get the job done-

Just a touch. Just fingers against his skin, and compassionate hazel and blue eyes, and a vibrant song of rotors in the empty places of his soul.

_Lost. I'm lost_.

_Not lost_. A swiftness of feathers, unshakable as the mountains Airwolf laired in. _Never lost. Mine_.

"Can't find what's not there," String said quietly. "They've locked him in and shut him out. Only way's to blow a hole in the box." A wry, upward quirk of dark brow. "We're good at that."

Michael dragged in a breath, leaned back in his chair. "I don't want to hurt him." There. The truth was out, awful and terrifying as an avalanche. _I don't know if I can do my job._

Yet he had to. He had to, or break his oath to defend his country; and his oath was all that held the tattered remnants of an operative's soul.

"You're better with people-" String started

"Huh! Like _that's_ a news flash," Caitlin muttered.

String shot her a dark glance, scowled when it bounced off her impish smile. "What do you think he'd do if you told him the truth?"

* * *

  
_Now_ , Daniel decided, as Major Channing politely turned down one more offer of local vodka. The party was in full swing, the hall warm with massed bodies and a blazing fire, balalaikas strumming songs of love and betrayal, a laughing Russian peasant in festival vest and polished boots dragging a stammering Sam into a stomping dance.

No one noticed a silent figure snag sliced sausages and wend his way into starlit night.

The archaeologist munched spiced meat in the shadow of a barn, staring up at diamond-dusted darkness. The Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, guiding Polaris and the white streak of the Milky Way...

_The bear, Chickadee with her cooking pot, and Where-The-Dog-Ran_. A flicker of amusement tugged at his mouth as Ariella's old bedtime star-stories rose to mind. Stories that had whispered and tugged at his memory for years, only to draw blank stares from any foster family he'd tried to tell them to.

Only decades later had Daniel found out the track-turned-stardust wasn't a Southern story, but Cherokee.

_Colored_. That's what Ariella's time would have called her. No matter how many generations back those stories had become part of her heritage. No matter how blonde, and genteel, and fair. _Colored. Passing for white_.

Small wonder her son... was a spy.

_Polaris means north, and Michael said he'd be about two miles_ that _way_... Jack might not think anything of his sense of direction through the 'Gate, but that was off-planet. Was it his fault the stars weren't in the right places? Weren't even the same stars?

_Don't think about it_.

Daniel walked a wooden fence-line to the edge of a young orchard, took one last bearing before heading under mossy trees. Ordinarily he wouldn't try this. His vision wasn't the best in broad daylight; night was best braved with caution and a flashlight.

But there were so _many_ stars tonight...

_And will I see the Firebird?_ the archaeologist wondered wistfully, remembering a thousand Russian tales of spirits friendly and otherwise, met on nights the stars seemed so close you could almost touch. _If I could just see... something beautiful. Something of hope. My luck couldn't get any worse from a Firebird's curse_...

And for a moment, he did see feathers. A shimmer of snow-white and cloud-streaked blue; a winter wolf with hawk eyes, silent and swift as a falcon in flight.

A blink, and the trick of starlight disappeared; light and shadow resolving into a form just as sleek and deadly. Three slender wheels, a black-and-white hull, a subtle silver shine of rotors-

And a spy in a gray flight suit, leaning on a rosewood cane, tense as a wound spring.

Daniel stopped on the clearing's edge, watched his breath puff into chill air. _What do I say? What can I say?_

"Daniel." Almost a whisper; Michael studied him, gave a subtle nod. "I'm glad to see you."

* * *

  
_Twice in one day. That's got to be a personal best_ , Sam thought wryly, denying the panic trying to clamp down on her ribcage in the middle of Iablan's music and merriment. Panic that was currently insisting Daniel was gone, and this was bad, and she had to find him-

Panic that was dredging up everything from that whole mess with the Eurondans' heavy water, to that fraction-of-a-second near-miss with the Enkarans, to Jack cutting them off mid-phone call when Daniel had been frantically trying to get information on Osiris. Before his possessed ex-girlfriend did her Goa'uld best to fry his brain.

Panic that squeezed even tighter when Sam remembered the empty look on Daniel's face as they went through Russian customs.

_It's like he just doesn't care anymore_. The major tried to shake away the thought as she combed the crowd, grimaced as it came circling back. This couldn't be as bad as it seemed. Daniel was just off in a quiet corner somewhere, that was all. _Sha'uri's gone, and Nick's gone, and Shifu's off being enigmatic with Oma Desala. And the rest of us aren't enough to hold him_.

No. That couldn't be. The SGC wouldn't even exist without Daniel Jackson. He was just... a little down lately, that was all. He'd snap back. He always did.

Now if she could just _find_ him-

A whiff of sickly-sweet, and the world went black.

* * *

  
"Excellent." Naberezhnyi regarded the still woman out of sight of the merriment, wondered once more if chloroform were the right compound for such a task. Too much could kill...

But the chemical's properties were familiar, and the major's biochemistry was not. Best to stick to what they knew.

"Load her in the truck. After you have secured the shackles." It would be a jostling ride to the temporary lab, and a few hours before their transport to a more secure location could arrive. He would take no chances. Who knew if the major's symbiote were truly dead?

Yet iron shackles should hold even a Goa'uld, so long as she was weak. And within the lab itself, there were more... esoteric restraints.

If she were Russian, he might have pitied her.

* * *

  
Daniel wrapped chilled hands around the warmth of a coffee-filled camp mug, glanced at the man who'd poured it. "Where's Dom?" Half-dreading the answer; he might not know that much about spies, but he knew very well they usually didn't die in bed.

"Home. Taking care of my nephew." String seemed cool and composed as ever, gun safely tucked under his forest-green jacket, leaning against the helicopter's dark hull with casual ease.

_You have a nephew?_ Daniel bit his tongue against the question, flushed. They hadn't known Teal'c had family, either. Not until Rya'c had nearly died.

Blue eyes crinkled at the corners; as if the covert pilot had heard that unvoiced surprise a thousand times before. Suddenly the measured gaze... wasn't quite so measured. Not softer, exactly. But gentler. Like a gyrfalcon, tenderly tearing off strips of prey for its downy young.

Suppressing a shiver, Daniel turned toward a hint of lithe, sudden movement. _A woman?_

String's co-pilot. Daniel recognized clear hazel eyes, though the waves of red hair under her parka hood were a shock. "Caitlin," she grinned at him, hands stuffed into fur-lined pockets. "Would've talked to you last trip, but you were kinda out of it."

"So I've heard," Michael mused. "At least this time you did bring the Marines." A half-dark gaze implored the heavens. "For all the good it did."

" _You_ sent that note-" _No. Don't let him sidetrack you._ "Michael. _Archangel._ Why are you here?"

"I see Colonel O'Neill's seen fit to fill you in on some of the less savory aspects of my profession," Michael murmured. "Fair enough. I'm here for the same reason you are." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a hardened palmtop computer. "Only your fact-finding mission is grudgingly sanctioned by such notables as Senator Kinsey, while mine... well. The good senator's annoyed enough that I'm still alive. Knowing I'd carried out an operation such as this one would give him the perfect excuse to try to fire me. Again."

"Ah... excuse me?" The palmtop's contents seemed clear enough; scanned Cyrillic documents about interstellar travel, no known human inhabitants located on planet number nine-

_Nine? But Svetlana said they'd only been to seven planets_...

Oh. Hells.

"Yes. They are lying to us, Dr. Jackson." A wry smile bent the blond mustache. "Not that I can blame them. Not if they think the likes of Kinsey are in charge."

"Wait. Wait." Daniel held up a halting hand, trying to scan the computer screen and read the pilots' unfamiliar expressions at the same time. _Hell with it_. He focused on Michael. "You know Senator Kinsey?"

"Unfortunately." The shrug was too practiced to be casual. "The senator has many reasons for disliking secret projects. Some of them are even rational." Michael touched fingertips to black hull, as if the helicopter's presence were a comfort. "A few years ago, Kinsey had a... fellow acquaintance on the Hill. Senator William Dietz, head of the Senate's Weapons Appropriations Subcommittee. Not the most honest sort, as politicians go, but a man with a positive gift for selecting weapons systems that would perform in the field. As close as a man like Kinsey comes to having a friend."

Daniel felt his eyebrows climb. Kinsey had friends? Weird thought.

Michael glanced away, drew his gaze back up with determined finality. "The story is long, but the pertinent details are short. Dietz came to review one of my projects. A traitor, who happened to be one of the project's designers, blew Senator Dietz, my facility, my tower, and many of my people into very small pieces." He tapped a finger against his cane. "Kinsey's never forgiven me for having the bad taste to survive."

String snorted. "He'd probably let it go if you handed over Airwolf."

"Not a chance in hell!"

A swift curve of lips; was that a _smile_ on the pilot's granite face? "I know."

"Airwolf?" Daniel asked carefully. Frantically storing details in memory to crosscheck later. If he just knew _why_ Kinsey hated the SGC so much...

And why would _handing over Airwolf_ draw the same sharp, defensive anger he'd seen on Jack, when Maybourne tried to walk off with Teal'c?

Caitlin patted black hull. "Airwolf." A wry sparkle in hazel eyes. "She already knows who _you_ are."

_It has a name_. Daniel studied the black-and-white war machine with fresh eyes, trying to see past memories of Guatemala, of fear and fire and death. Trying to see the beauty in lines sleek as night, the stubby wings hiding lethal weapons, the turbo engines that could punch her through the sky like the fist of Hippolyte.

Not easy. But there was something in the pilots' eyes when they looked at her; something he'd never seen in a Marine admiring a weapon.

Something that reminded him of Janet, cradling a sleepy Cassandra in her arms at an SG-1 picnic.

_Weird_. Daniel shook off the incongruous image, glanced at Michael. "Did you bug their facility, too?"

"In a slightly different fashion than we did yours," the spy answered frankly. "We do need to know what's going on in there. And I doubt any measures the Pentagon might institute at Kinsey's behest would be sufficient."

Caught flat-footed, Daniel gaped. It'd been a shot in the dark, he'd never expected... "Why are you telling me this?"

The half-dark gaze met his. "I need your help."

Uh-oh.

"I'm not certain you realize the magnitude of what the Pentagon has done." Michael's hand clenched on his cane; he shifted his weight with a grimace. "In essence, they've started a private war. Congress generally tends to frown on that." A flicker of wry smile. "Not that I'm anyone to take them to task for expending munitions in congressionally unsanctioned ways, but they've done so without consulting the usual agencies of American intelligence as well. And that does worry me."

The archaeologist finished off his coffee, deliberately set the cup down on a black wing. _Think. What would Jack say, here?_ "Exactly what good would spies do in intergalactic warfare?"

"I've no idea," Michael said frankly. "We haven't been allowed to investigate the situation." A spark of anger in that visible eye. "Even though you have had aliens loose on this planet. Good Lord, Daniel! What if there _had_ been a sarcophagus down in Guatemala? What if one of those parasites with delusions of grandeur had gotten loose, grabbed some peasant, or American embassy worker, or international terrorist-" Knuckles clenched, white on silver. "Or you."

A Goa'uld in a terrorist. With access to not just the regular weapons Seth's cult had used, but everything modern terrorists had grabbed hold of; from bio-warfare to chemical weapons to stray radioactive materials. All of which could become a dozen times more deadly, with a Goa'uld's millennia of knowledge to back them. Gods, he hadn't even considered that scenario. Daniel swallowed, suddenly lightheaded. "Part of the job."

"Part of the _job?_ To put yourself at risk, with no backup?" A hissed, furious breath; lips peeled back, baring Archangel's teeth. "You thought it might be one of Hathor's spawn, and you still went; after what she did to you-"

_Hathor. He knows about Hathor_. Daniel blinked furiously, trying to clear away memories of helplessness, of knowing what the Goa'uld Queen wanted was wrong, yet feeling his body respond anyway. Of knowing he'd betrayed Sha'uri, that he didn't _deserve_ to find her now. Of feeling almost glad that his wife had died without knowing how he'd hurt her, that he'd never see the pity in her eyes...

Oh, Jack was right. Archangel _was_ good. He almost sounded like he cared. "You never looked for me." Gods, his voice was shaking. Why was his voice shaking?

"Professional hazard," the spy said softly. "We never knew your real name. Not even my mother did. All we knew was that your parents had done some Company work; if we'd pried, we might have put you in danger - String!"

And the pilot had an arm under Daniel's shoulder, supporting him as his knees gave way. Caitlin yanked open the co-pilot's door in a hiss of warm, pressurized air, cleared the way as String helped the archaeologist slump into the doorway. "Thought she couldn't touch him?" the redhead bridled.

"She didn't, much," String said bluntly. "Stress." The cool voice gentled; a night breeze, instead of howling blizzard. "Daniel. You're safe. You're with the Lady. Not a safer place on the planet..."

There was more; a smooth river of meaningless words, washing past as Daniel huddled against warm metal. And somewhere in there was a shoulder to lean on, a whisper of familiar voice that promised nothing. Only held, and soothed, and vowed it understood.

He wept then, as he'd wept so many years ago; cried for the pain and loss and the shattered dreams.

And as there'd been so many years ago, there was an arm around him, a promise stronger than any words.

_I'm here. I won't let you fall._

_Just hold on, Daniel. You can hold on_.

_I believe in you_....

* * *

  
_Contact with unregistered passenger, Daniel Jackson, intermittent._  
_Projecting safety_.  
_Advise Michael Archangel continue physical contact_.

_Not planning on letting go any time soon, Lady_ , Michael thought dryly. Damping his own anger; how long had it been since Daniel had felt truly safe, if this was what a moment's promise of haven did to his defenses?

"I've been chemically manipulated," the spy kept up his quiet murmur, wondering how much might be getting through to the shaking archaeologist. "I know what it's like to feel yourself - betray yourself. To feel you should have known better. To feel you should have done _something_." He brushed short strands out of Daniel's glasses, felt the hot salt of tears sting his skin. Short, almost military haircut; god, why hadn't the SGC seen that as a warning? _Probably thought he was trying to fit in. Damn it._ "If Hawke hadn't dragged me off to the cabin for a few days - if I hadn't had that peace, to gather myself back to myself..." He glanced up, helpless.

"Just keep talking." String kept watch on the path back toward the village. "I held onto Tet; felt like days. Burned his ears about Horn."

"Oh, Hawke..." Caitlin touched his hand as she headed to the avionics bay, firm and gentle as she would a skittish mustang.

The pilot gave her an almost offhand shrug. "I'm okay. Now." String slid a quick glance at Daniel. "He needs somebody to be there. Doesn't matter what they're saying."

"I appreciate your confidence in my conversational skills, but this is far beyond my level of expertise." Airwolf shifted in the back of his mind, spinning out gossamer threads of comfort. No telling what of that might be getting through; Airwolf had no link to the archaeologist, only an odd shred of lingering familiarity from past contact. "He needs help, Hawke. Real help, not that sanctimonious bastard MacKenzie." _And not me_. He was an operative, trained to run agents; trained to interrogate, break a man down, reshape mind and soul into what _he_ needed. Not to heal.

"Yeah." String's eyes were bleak as he glanced at his watch. "What's that riddle of Marella's? All medicines are poisons?"

_And all poisons, medicines_ , Michael finished silently. An old, old medical quandary; what could kill could also heal. _Easy for you to say. This is like clearing rubble with Hellfires._

"Triage, Michael. Do what you can."

_And do it fast_. Archangel nodded. They were pushing it as things stood; between sneaking into Russia tense minutes before dawn, hiding under cover to catch a much-needed nap, and then infiltrating the Russian Stargate facility, they'd been in Russian airspace almost twenty hours. Much longer, and-

String's head snapped up; he peered down the faint path toward the village, sidearm in hand. "Inside."

Movement finally penetrated the archaeologist's tear-streaked haze. "W-what-"

"In, and quiet," Archangel breathed, guiding him into Airwolf's confines. Now he could hear what String's keener ears had caught; footsteps through fallen brush, a soft murmur of bored Russian. "We've got company."

Doors sealed with a gentle hiss; Caitlin was already in her helmet, frowning at lights flickering across her board. String strapped into the pilot's seat, started a swift preflight.

And Michael found himself with an armful of struggling archaeologist. "We're not - I can't - you're not going to take off!"

"Daniel-" Reason wasn't going to cut it here. Not with the Lady ready and quivering, just waiting for the press of a switch. "Caitlin?"

"We got trouble." Caitlin jerked her head toward an instrument panel, hands dancing over the board as she called up specific frequencies on transmission surveillance. "The Marines just lit off radios, and man, are they _ticked_."

"Yet that's a Russian patrol out there." He didn't have all the numbers yet, but he didn't like what they were adding up to.

"They were?" Daniel's struggles slowed. "How do you know?"

"We heard them," Michael shrugged. "They're only a mile away."

Daniel went still.

_Oh, hell._ Archangel winced. Maybe String could still let him out, so he could find a hole and pull it in after him-

And chagrin was lost in a rush of _hunger-for-sky_ , as String pressed ignition.

* * *

  
_Only a mile away_. Daniel tried to focus on that as vibration built around him; more sensed than seen, this helicopter had soundproofing that beat any military plane he'd flown in to heck. Only _a mile_.

As if it weren't anything special. As if hearing better than Teal'c's were average, everyday...

Michael flung a harness strap into his grip, pulled on a helmet, took over controls Caitlin had left for the co-pilot's seat. "Engineering's set." He took a moment to plug slender cables into the back of his helmet. "I wonder what Major Channing's tolerance for frustration is."

"Whisper Mode," String ordered.

"Ah, no offense," Daniel pointed out, lowering his voice to the asked-for whisper, "But aren't they going to hear us anyway?"

"Nope." Caitlin had punched up a green-on-black wire-frame image of Airwolf. _Whisper Mode LOCKED_ flashed on-screen. "We're playing owl."

_Owl?_ Daniel blinked as they rose into the night sky, felt his stomach sway as Airwolf's nose dipped and they surged forward. _Oh, brother_.

Up and away, light and free as a falcon. Daniel drew in a breath of strangely flat air, dragged his attention from star-strewn night to Archangel's intent concentration on the communications setup. "Aren't our - Major Channing's frequencies supposed to be encrypted?"

"Yeah." Somewhere up front, String switched on a speaker.

"-Patrol 2," the radio voice was calm, controlled; a Marine in hostile territory, without immediate targets in sight. "No sign of Major Carter."

"This is three, we're running into resistance from civilians. Requesting clarification?"

Major Channing's voice was calmly annoyed. "You are not, repeat _not_ , to initiate hostilities. We're going to find Dr. Naberezhnyi and get this cleared up-"

String switched off the speaker. "Michael?"

"Scanning local NSB frequencies, including those earmarked for the Stargate facility." Was it Daniel's imagination, or was there real worry in Archangel's cool tone?

The pilot's helm nodded. "Look for content, pattern shifts-"

A subtle snort. "I do know the drill, Hawke."

Hazel eyes glanced back from the co-pilot's seat. "You don't think this is about the Lady?"

"No, of course it's not _you_ ," Daniel blurted, debating whether or not to head for the hatch. Forty-odd feet off the ground, not to mention the slim, cold-eyed pilot he knew would block his path... maybe not a good idea. _Try reason_. "Look, I've got to go. Didn't you hear Major Channing? Sam's missing."

"And they didn't notice you are, too," Caitlin shook her head. "Sometimes I hate it when you're right, Michael."

String flashed a quiet grin back toward them. "You get used to it."

"How do you know they don't know?" Daniel persisted. Tracking starlight to try and figure out which way they were heading; not back toward Iablan, that was certain. "Just because they haven't said anything about me, doesn't mean they're not looking." _They have to be looking. Jack promised they'd be looking. That I wouldn't be - left alone..._

A half-dark gaze studied him, handed over a helmet. "Put it on." A gloved finger pointed up. "Auxiliary tie-in's up there."

Daniel fumbled on black plastic, plugged in the indicated cord. Flinched back at the sudden clarity of voices in his ears; a quiet murmur between Hawke and Caitlin, overlaying the intercepted bursts of Major Channing's teams. "What are the cables for?"

"In-ship radio. Power." Archangel's eyes were dangerously level. "Neurological monitors."

Daniel paused. Resisted the temptation to rip the padded helm off. Granted, it took years for Eurondan systems to cause lasting problems. But they'd at least been working with neural interfaces for decades. Who knew what a Tau'ri copy could do? "Ah, that can be bad."

"They're just monitors, Dr. Jackson. Purely Terran technology. Designed long before the SGC was up and running. A system to let the aircraft commander know if a crew member is incapacitated." Humor glinted in Archangel's smile as he waved toward Hawke's control stick. "We have to pick our targets the old-fashioned way."

" _What_ targets?" He could hear String and Caitlin tossing fragments of a discussion back and forth; EM readings and radio transmissions and something about a Firm file on secure labs in the local area. "I thought you were spying."

"We were," Archangel said grimly. "And logic, not to mention good sense, would dictate that we continue that mission and leave, rather than risk exposing our presence. Major Channing is good at his job, he should be able to recover one missing Air Force astrophysicist. Or at the very least raise enough of a diplomatic stink that the Russian government would be forced to produce her, probably groggy, with no memory of where she'd been or who she'd been kidnapped by. Chechnyan terrorists, no doubt. Or so the official story would go."

_I think I hear a "but" coming_.

"Unfortunately-"

_Close enough_.

"The fact that Major Carter is missing is not nearly as troubling as who she may be missing _with_." Archangel touched controls, nodded as engines nudged back into optimal range. "It wasn't relevant before... but Baklan Naberezhnyi's specialty is definitively _not_ astrophysics."

"It's not?" Daniel licked his lips. "Who is he? KGB?"

Archangel snarled. "I only wish. Biopreparat."

"What's that?"

Michael hesitated.

_Oh, this isn't going to be good_...

"Bio-warfare," String said bluntly.

A buzzing filled his ears. Daniel stared at nothing, saw monitors go gray-

Dragged in a breath, shaking off terror like water. Color crept reluctantly back into the world, bright and coppery as the taste of fear in his throat. "Biological warfare's illegal."

"And Title 14, Section 1211 of the Code of Federal Regulations, implemented on July 16, 1969, makes it illegal for U.S. citizens to have any contact with extra-terrestrials or their vehicles," Archangel pointed out. "Need I list how often you and your team have violated that law?"

Daniel bristled. "That's different!"

"How?"

Gods. He had to _ask?_ "We haven't - we don't-"

"Got that right, we don't!" Caitlin said fiercely.

"True," Michael agreed. "We perform defensive research. We keep stocks of various deadly diseases, and chemicals, for the express purpose of finding new and better ways to defend ourselves and our allies. But. We do. Not. Use. Bio-warfare." Steel under his words, made all the sharper by old grief in his gaze. "Because, arrogant as it may seem, we are America; and we believe - incredible as it might be to the rest of the world - that our enemies may be just as human as we are. And there are acts no human being should commit upon another."

Silence was ragged in Daniel's ears, broken only by the murmur of his breath inside the helmet. _He believes that. He really does believe that_.

"But why?" the archaeologist finally pleaded. "Sam's not a host."

"Doesn't matter." String's voice was cool as ever. "Naberezhnyi's out to protect his people."

_Don't judge. Don't_ \- "You make it sound like you understand!"

"Know thine enemy." And it was Caitlin's voice; Caitlin's frank hazel gaze meeting his. "One on one, you can talk to just 'bout anybody. Start mixing it up with countries, and religion, and politics - hard to tell who's the good guys."

"We are," Michael said flatly.

Daniel raised a skeptical brow. "Really?"

"Of course." Almost a laugh, from String. "We wear white hats."

* * *

  
_Cold. Bright_.

Sam swam back toward consciousness, dimly aware of a buzz of foreign voices, a draft of cool air along exposed skin, a burning slice on her chilled arm, a blur of walls and lights that had no place in the tiny Russian village she remembered.

"-Four cc's _precisely_ -"

Dr. Naberezhnyi. How - where-

"She is awake. _Horrasho_." A white lab coat came into her blurred view; latex-covered fingers touched her cheek. "Mark the time."

A quiet _Da_ , and a rustle of paper.

"Far less time to recover than the dose should have required," Naberezhnyi mused. Latex prodded a neat red incision on her arm; probably made by the blood-edged knife in that ominous tray of equipment by his hand. "Though there appears no swifter healing than a healthy female specimen. I am curious what the video-recording will show, under high magnification."

Fear shivered down Sam's spine; her weapons and uniform were nowhere in sight, and the papery blue tunic that was her current nod to modesty felt fragile as a centuries-old wall-hanging. Was this what Teal'c had dreaded, infested by that alien insect? "I'm not... a specimen..."

Naberezhnyi's gaze was open, and curious, and completely devoid of compassion. "It is fortunate you are conscious. We should have an accurate baseline, before we begin the procedures." He wove fingers into her hair, casually yanked out a dozen strands. "We will not be able to begin the processing until we reach the proper facilities, but there is no reason to waste time."

Biting back a swear, Sam focussed enough to see her hairs separated into three sample bags and stored in a cooler of dry ice. _Samples for PCR? What... what do they want with my DNA?_

Jolinar. It had to be. The Tok'ra had left more than just memories behind with her death. She'd left physical traces; from naquadda in Sam's brain and bloodstream to an odd protein marker Janet could isolate, but not explain.

_DNA, RNA, protein_. The old biology sequence bubbled to the fore of her brain. _Oh God. Was it that simple? She left her DNA?_ Which would mean her intuition had been right all along; she really _wasn't_ herself anymore.

"Be grateful, Major." The scientist smiled, cold and heartless as Arctic winds. "Few have the opportunity to serve their planet as you will."


	3. Chapter 3

Marine majors did not swear, Major Channing thought, regarding the Russian patrol his men had caught. Not unless the situation called for it. And this didn't. Yet.

Close, though.

"Coffee?" He glanced at the metal camp mug they'd taken off the disgruntled patrol leader.

"Yes, sir." Lieutenant McMillan nodded forcefully. "Fresh."

Where there was coffee, there was an archaeologist. O'Neill's Rules of Jackson-Watching Number 17.

Only this time, there wasn't an archaeologist. What there was, was a faint trail of footprints, a trio of regular dents in soft grass, and a peculiar circular pattern to the way debris had been thrown around this small clearing.

Peculiar, if you'd never seen a heavy-lifting helicopter takeoff.

_Very heavy-lifting_ , Channing thought, unease crawling through his gut. Downwash had scoured everything lighter than fist-sized rocks from a central point, embedded some lighter pebbles into tree bark. He'd seen military-issue cargo helicopters work. This was high-powered even for them.

Yet no one - not the villagers, not his patrols, not even the nervous Russian soldiers they'd caught - had heard it fly.

_Screw it._ "Set up the satellite phone," Major Channing ordered. "Call the General."

And hope he was reading this right, and this was some sort of Russian black ops work. If it were Goa'uld...

_Get your head on straight, Major,_ Channing told himself forcefully, as his men regrouped into defensive formations. _We've never seen aliens use helicopters._

_Yet_.

* * *

  
_Got you_ , Caitlin thought, eyeing the seemingly-abandoned missile silo a mile ahead. Abandoned only to normal vision; IR, EM scanning, and radio surveillance revealed a furnace-glow of heat sources that shouldn't be there, a network of active circuits, an encrypted mutter of information. Cross-reference that with the Firm's latest info on medical equipment movements, the likely travel radius of any vehicle Naberezhnyi could've used, and Archangel's memory of how Biopreparat operated-

_One active, illegal bio-lab_ , Caitlin nodded. Suppressed a shiver, thinking of the last time she'd run into Russian biological weapons. Carrying death in her own veins... _Too bad we can't just blow the whole thing_.

The Lady's fierce triumph echoed her own. _Target located. Outward patrol perimeter noted._  
_Enemy reinforcements potentially en route. Developing pattern of placed portable lights consistent with intent for use as light plane STOL landing strip._  
_Searching for possible landing sites_.

String eyed the two best options, turned to her. "Which one?"

Caitlin chewed her lip. Another test. Almost three years with the Lady, and they were still testing her limits.

_Three years with the Firm, when Dom and String've had over a decade_ , the young operative reminded herself. _You still got lots to learn._ She weighed her options, pointed. "There."

"Why not the north site?" Cool. Not a hint of wrong or right.

"It's closer, but it's too open," Caitlin said firmly. "Roving patrol could see us, an' we can see they got two of 'em; one watching out, one putting down the lights." Americans might have elaborate security systems. Russia had always trusted more to armed guards than electronics. "Heat source there's equipment, there's people. The one who's not moving is probably Carter. We need to sneak in and find her; then the Lady can swoop in and get us out. But we gotta have surprise to start."

"Good." The small smile warmed her down to her toes; String didn't hand out praise lightly.

Which was just as well, given the shock he dished out next. "Dr. Jackson." Hawke pointed to the pack of Firm gear set near Archangel's seat. "Pick what you can use. You're coming with us."

The archaeologist took out one of the spare semi-automatics, drew in a sharp breath. "You want me to _what?_ "

"He's right." Michael moved to take the silenced sidearm from Daniel. Stopped at String's cool glance. "It should be me."

"Michael, you can't." Caitlin kept her gaze away from the rosewood cane as String landed; Michael knew his limitations. Even if Archangel sometimes ignored them. "This isn't just sneaking. We gotta get in, get her, and get out before they get time to light off."

"I can-"

"Take another dose of painkiller and fall over." String's tone was hard as the Tehachapi Mountains. A finger pointed to a subtle amber light on his console; the Lady's visible reminder of her pilot's medical limits.

_Michael Archangel currently suffering post-medication effects of classified Firm neuromuscular pain block_. Airwolf might have kept her objections off the computer monitors, but they were clear and sharp in Caitlin's mind as if she'd highlighted them on-screen. _Second dose contraindicated. Muscular tremors, numbing of full link negative factors in mission success_.

"Why did I ever believe it was a good idea to put medical monitors in these systems," the spy grumbled.

Daniel's gaze found the offending knee. "How bad is it?"

Archangel bristled. "Nothing that would prevent me from my work-"

"He shouldn't be on it." Flat fact, from String. "He tries, the Lady'll lock the doors."

"Hawke!"

"Air support, Michael. Give me backup. Not heroics."

The archaeologist shoved up his glasses. "He, ah... makes sense."

"That's what worries me," Archangel grumbled, working his way out of the engineer's seat. The time it took him was testimony enough in String's favor. "When Sir Galahad sees reason, Armageddon can't be far behind."

_Galahad_ , Daniel mouthed, gold brows rising. Shook his head.

Caitlin hid a grin. _What, can't you see the resemblance? Rides in on a magic steed, saves the girl, disappears_... "We're gonna need more than somebody who speaks Russian in there, anyway," she pointed out, vacating the co-pilot's chair. "Major Carter hasn't ever seen us. How's she going to know we're the good guys?"

"Been working with us too long." String's face had that spare, wry grin she knew so well; more a flash of sky-bright eyes than any motion of lips. "You're starting to think like an operative."

Red brows quirked up. "That a compliment, or an insult?"

"Let you know."

"While the two of you are busily determining who's offended whom... Daniel." Archangel dug into a pocket, came up with one of the Firm's new spray-cans. "Short-range, non-lethal knockout. Good for two hours. Do _not_ breathe it in." A hint of grin bent his mustache. "About time the French paid us back for some of their industrial espionage."

Biting his lip, Daniel took the can.

"Dr. Jackson." String's tone was deadly serious. "You don't have to come. Cait and I can pull this off."

_Oh, yeah?_ But Caitlin kept her doubts silent. She could almost see Daniel gathering his nerve, reassembling shreds of tattered emotion.

The archaeologist swallowed dryly. "You don't speak Russian."

String shrugged. "I'm a pilot. I know some Spanish, that's it."

"Remind me to start pounding Russian grammar through your skull when we get home," Michael muttered.

Daniel shook his head slowly. "You need someone who can speak the language-"

"We need someone who can shoot if he has to." Hawke's gaze never wavered. "These aren't aliens, Dr. Jackson. And we can't get caught."

"He's right," Archangel said bluntly. "We _cannot_ be found here. Alive, dead, or in pieces. The diplomatic repercussions would be devastating."

"So I want you to think, and give me a straight answer." String's tone was almost as gentle as Dom's. "Comes down to them or us - can you shoot?"

The archaeologist drew in a ragged breath. Weighed the weapon in his hand. Combed fingers through short hair.

Checked the safety, with all the skill of a veteran. "They have Sam."

String held his gaze a moment more; nodded. "Pull up a map, Lady. Let's see how we're going to do this..."

* * *

  
_I'm in hell_.

Sam shuddered against cold air, barely wincing as the edge of her shackles bit into the cut on her arm. It was too familiar a pain.

_I'm in hell, and I'm not even dead yet_.

So far the tests hadn't been too... invasive. Naberezhnyi's people had only sampled body fluids, taken skin scrapings, and temporarily replaced iron shackles with plastic bonds to put her through their portable MRI. Not too much different from what Janet would do after a particularly risky off-world mission.

Except for the part about being _chained to the table-_

_Don't panic! Breathe in, breathe out. Focus. Control. Watch for a way out. There's got to be a way out...._

Except so far, there wasn't. The Russian scientists were aware and alert, despite the hour, and armed guards had never been more than a few yards away. Even when they'd turned on the MRI, grim soldiers had simply exchanged metal-based weapons for plastic and glass knockout hypos.

Sam had stayed very, very still on sight of those. The only thing worse than knowing what was happening was... _not_ knowing what was happening.

God. Was this what Daniel had felt like in MacKenzie's hands? Drugged, and abandoned, and knowing there was no one to save him....

_Don't think that way! Channing's looking for you. Daniel's looking for you. Soon as Channing calls in, the Colonel will be looking for you. Now pull yourself together and help them find you!_

Okay. Inventory time. Shackles, check. Lab assistant, check. Pair of armed guards, check. A few bottles full of Cyrillic-labeled chemicals; damn it, what a time for Daniel not to be here. She probably had everything here she'd need to blow the place sky-high, and she couldn't even read the warning labels.

One of the guards jerked up from listening to his radio, beckoned to Naberezhnyi with an excited babble of Russian.

"Ah. They come. Good." Steel gleamed in the overhead lights; Naberezhnyi put the sheathed hypo down, just long enough to remove a dark bottle from refrigeration. "Still. We have enough time to check the preliminary allergic response."

Oh, yeah. Sadistic scientist, check.

* * *

  
_I can't do this._ Daniel tried to keep his teeth from chattering as he straightened his borrowed uniform, gave up. He might have snuck past the outer perimeter without a problem, and he might be about Michael's size, but there was no way he could wear a foreign service's gear with any degree of confidence. _I can't..._

"Daniil." String's touch on his wrist was firm, no-nonsense; a light version of the steady grip that had guided him through the dark. The pilot's own makeup had been re-touched, and his soldier's gear was stiffly neat. "We've done this. They won't see you. They'll see a superior officer with an assistant. Someone they _hope_ isn't their problem."

Right. Like Jack had done to Jaffa a half-dozen times, marching right past in borrowed headgear. "I'll sc-screw it up-"

"Michael thinks you won't."

Sure. And a spy was such a _good_ judge of character.

"Gut in knots?" String's brows were lifted; mildly, politely interested. "Hands like ice? Want to throw up?"

_All of the above_. "Y-yeah."

"Smart man." String nodded. "Remember. You're not an archaeologist. You're not even an American. You're a Russian Army Captain, here to take control of some idiot's secret project that just landed on your desk - and you are mad as hell." Stepping back, he snapped off a salute.

_Right. Show time_. Daniel made certain his cap was centered, strode into sudden view of the two guards by the door. Out of the corner of his eye he saw String bring up his rear, formally correct as Colonel O'Neill accompanying General Hammond. _"Schtovui!"_

The two guards stiffened to rigid attention; Daniel marched right into the stiffer one's personal space, quelling the sudden impulse to take to his heels. "Where is _Doktor_ Naberezhnyi?" he demanded. "We have orders to move the subject, immediately!"

"Captain!" A swift salute, that still never took the guard's hand too far from his weapon. "We had no orders-"

"Of _course_ , you had no orders," Daniel bristled. "Never are the orders where they _should_ be. But I assure you Naberezhnyi _will_. Take me to him, now!"

The senior guard swallowed, but stood his ground. "My apologies, Captain. But, you will understand, we must see your documents-"

_Hsssh_.

Daniel swayed back as a dark-clad Caitlin cushioned the farther guard's tumble to the ground. String held his unconscious victim a second longer, spray can in his off hand, leaning the man against the side of the silo in a pose a casual observer might mistake for a lazy slouch.

The archaeologist sucked in chill air, watched the guards' slow rise and fall of breath. _They're alive. They're alive._

String glanced up. "Let's go."

Daniel nodded jerkily, straightened. _Ticked-off Russian Captain. Right._

Hand on the door. And one, and two, and-

_Here goes everything._

* * *

  
Enemy radar was a whisper of wind across Airwolf's sensor-strewn skin; a tingle of fingers brushed lightly over hairs. Radio chatter was a grumble at the edge of hearing, sharpening as she tuned into the correct frequencies. Cameras focused skyward, searching for the first trace of her enemies. _Incoming_.

Michael's hands tapped over her controls, setting up IFF. "What've we got, Angel?"

She felt data flow to her screen, knew the pertinent facts in her alloy bones. Two keen hunters knifed the sky; swift and dangerous as she was, bearing the deadly missile-talons she so fiercely missed. In their wake lumbered a light, slow companion, dove to the enemy's eagles.

"MiGs high on watch, light plane low to snatch and grab," Michael muttered. "And none of them from Kuybyshev. Hmm. Has to be more than Naberezhnyi involved; he's skilled with germs, but he doesn't have this kind of foresight." Gloved fingers tapped absently on the edge of her console. "Not surprising they don't want to keep the major near the Stargate. Not when the good doctor's just dying to try out his tailored viruses on something with a tougher immune system than your average Afghani." A wisp of images rose to his mind; smuggled photos of horrid death in glass vials, of deadly purple lesions, of Firm agents' bodies strewn like poisoned jackstraws...

_Kabul-Aleutian?_ Airwolf shivered, a cub seeking shelter from storm. That had been close. Too close. String and Caitlin had been so ill, pain and psychotic paranoia leaking even through her then-unstable links. And all she'd been able to do was watch her pilots' medical monitors fade, as the virus wormed its way inward...

"They found the cure, Angel." Michael pressed keys, refining the image from passive radar. "And the good doctor's not arrogant enough to let something that lethal loose under such uncontrolled conditions. Not quite."

_Delay takeoff?_

"No time." Cool determination flowed down Archangel's link as he pressed ignition; aware, as she was aware, that their IR signature would draw enemy attention within minutes. "How far are they in?"

_Listening_.

* * *

  
Sam bared her teeth, jerked clear of pointed steel. "Get the hell _away_ from me, you son of a-"

"Language, language, my dear major." Naberezhnyi held the needle away from her squirming form, took a moment to wave a chiding, latex-skinned finger. "And we had been cooperating so well... do you not know our goals are the same? We seek to slay the Goa'uld, as do-"

A scattering of pops; armed men jerked and coughed, staggering against the walls. The assistant shrieked, diving for a corner, even as a familiar voice shouted something in Russian.

_Daniel?_

_"Nyet!"_ Naberezhnyi snarled, aspirating the needle. Holding it, poised, over her heart. _"Nyellzya!_ How _dare_ you to interfere?"

Gaze locked on that deadly cylinder of air, Sam still caught a glimpse of the cold-eyed man in the Russian soldier's uniform as he aimed dead on her captor. "Man said, let her go."

" _Nekogda!_ " A cold, cruel smile. "And so we wait, yes? Until one of us grows... tired?"

"There isn't any _point_ to this, Doctor," Daniel insisted. Off to his right was a blur of red and fur, as a stern-eyed woman gestured the assistant away from fallen weapons. "Sa- Major Carter's not a host. You took an MRI; you have to know that!"

Sam wet her lips, tried to draw her gaze from that glistening point. Failed. _He's not going to listen, Daniel._

"She can't help you kill the Goa'uld," the archaeologist went on. "Nothing you can do to her will tell you anything!"

"Ah. So innocent, you Americans..." The biologist sniffed, contemptuous. "She knows their secrets, does she not? Ah, yes; I see she does. Then there is much she can tell us. Much indeed."

Damn. Daniel never had been good at poker. "Daniel, he's-"

The metal point lowered, clear threat. "Silence, Major."

Sam tore her gaze from the needle, tried to reach the blue eyes under that shock of a Russian officer's uniform cap. _He's stalling, Daniel!_

"MiGs coming in." Cold certainty in the strange man's eyes. "We're out of time."

Naberezhnyi started, held steady. "Then you must know, there will be no escape."

The stranger smiled.

And yanked Daniel to the floor.

Thunder roared through metal walls; tore waves of heat over her bare skin. Shattered glass in scintillating sparks, loosing tangs of iodine and rubbing alcohol that blended with the shrieks-

Sam opened her eyes to ear-ringing silence, a sting of torn skin across her breastbone, a cold lash of wind through shredded metal.

A hot, wet spatter of blood on arm and shoulder, as Naberezhnyi's shattered form tumbled boneless to the floor.

"'Mind me not to tick him off," the redhead muttered.

"Sam!" Daniel fumbled with her restraints, took the automatic lock-pick the covert ops stranger handed him. "Hang on, we're getting you out - did he hurt you? Stupid question, I know, sorry. They said he was in bio-warfare... did he inject you? With anything?"

"Took blood samples. Said he'd save the rest... for later." _30-mm_ , the major thought dazedly, rubbing shackle-bruised wrists as she blinked at hole-strewn walls. _Maybe 40. Shot right over me. Holy Hannah._

And she was alive. Either the guy on the other end of the guns had a targeting system she'd never seen, or he had the luck of all the Irish ever deported from Erin. Or both. "My uniform-"

"Right, right. Got it." Daniel grabbed up a heap of dress blues, flushed. "Ah - let me turn around-"

"No time." The covert ops blond seized her hand, helped her past shattered glass. A caterwaul rose behind them; the assistant Naberezhnyi had never named, scrabbling over a body, screaming at the top of his lungs before the redhead sprayed him in the face. He fell, limp and silent.

"But - shoes-" Daniel protested.

_"No time."_

And they were out in the frigid Siberian night, a buzz of some light plane approaching from the east, laced with shouts from onrushing soldiers and a muzzle-flash of bullets.

Bullets that _spang_ ed and sparked, off the howling black beast between them and the stars.

_A helicopter?_ But helicopters didn't howl. Jets howled. And what was that odd suck of air as she neared warm hull; like the intake of massive engines?

_Jet engines on a helicopter._ Nobody _has jet engines on a helicopter!_

And they were inside, a rush of warm, purified air, a festival of lighted consoles Sam was just dying to get a look at-

And the covert blond's unyielding hand on her shoulder. "Night, Major."

_Hsssh._

* * *

  
"You didn't have to-"

"Strap in and stay quiet, Dr. Jackson," Archangel said tightly. He didn't dare leave the co-pilot's chair for engineering; they were already in the air, and Caitlin had climbed into the back with grim determination, freckles standing out against pale skin. _Damn. She must have had to shoot someone._ "Things are about to get complicated."

Very complicated. _Oh, hell. I've never flown against MiGs before._

Michael pushed back fear, concentrated on the bright lines tracing through his mind; MiG trajectories, slowing as they approached the spot they meant to circle while their light, fragile companion came down for the pick-up. _And any second now, someone's going to have a brainstorm and pick up a radio._

He felt more than saw String's slight nod of agreement. "Jam them." The pilot's voice dropped, almost nonchalant. "And hit the lights. Might as well let them know how much trouble they're in."

"More accurately, how much trouble _we're_ in," Michael murmured, jamming the airwaves. Airwolf's weapons-ready status - or lack of same - was clear across his boards. "Need I remind you what we're not carrying at the moment?"

A crinkle of blue eyes under the dark visor. "They don't know that."

* * *

  
_"Bohze moi!"_ Mache Kabanov jerked back on his MiG's stick, peeling off from the black-and-white shark silhouetted below. There was a form whispered about in the darkest pits of pilots' barracks; the wolf of the north, the _rusalki_ 's kin, the ghost that struck and vanished in the night. The deadly black helicopter that _must_ be American, could not be anything _but_ American - yet even the NSB did not know for certain.

"Mache - is it-" Talai, his wingman; as starkly shaken as he, before static drowned radios and radar alike.

_And so we die, with only the wind to witness_ -

Light vanished. Recovering starlight visors showed a ripple in the wind; silvery rotors fleeing west, into the night.

_They did not fire?_ But why? The wind-wolf was armed, all knew it; fangs of Sidewinders and Hellfires, claws of armor-piercing bullets. More than a match for any pair of MiGs, did it take them unawares.

_Unless_ -

They were so _far_ from American airspace. Even did that black craft dip across the border into China - and they would be fools to do so, and those who flew it were not fools - they had so many hundreds of kilometers to go. So far, before that racing night-beast could find fuel again.

And missiles were so _heavy_.

_A bluff!_

Teeth bared, he fired.

* * *

  
"Turbos!"

Daniel swallowed as a massive hand seemed to push him back against the wall. Add that to the headache building behind his eyes - he gulped again, trying to hold back the taste of spiced sausage. Lucky for Sam she was already out of it. _Oh, hell_... "What's going on?"

Michael didn't glance back, even when thunder rattled by - and off - their hull. "They're chasing us."

"You're not going to shoot?"

"Don't have much to shoot with," Caitlin muttered. Some of the color was coming back into her face, though there was still a suspicious wetness to her eyes. "Ammo means weight. An' it's a heck of a long way to fill up."

Okay, made sense, good... not good. "So what do we do?"

String's snort was clear over his helmet radio. "Run."

"Oh." Running was good. Running was fine. Except- "Ah... those are jets."

"Yes, they are." Michael did something to his console, shook his head. "MiG-29's. 30-mm cannon, good agility, air-to-air missiles... and running flat-out, they can push 2.3 Mach."

Over twice the speed of sound. Yipe. "And?"

"Usually, we can get a bit faster."

"And?"

"We're carrying five people-"

"Hawke, we got missiles incoming!" Caitlin sang out.

"Sunburst!"

"-And we have to dodge."

* * *

  
Even in the middle of Siberia, explosions tend to draw attention.

Jouncing along in their commandeered trucks, Major Channing jerked his gaze to the red-streaked sky. The locals might not have been willing to talk, but sonic booms were a dead giveaway that something was up. Flash of white making a tight circle in the sky, thunder of high-mm cannon, lights in a rectangular strip on the ground... _What's a light plane doing under a dogfight?_ "Lieutenant, hail them."

"Still jammed, sir!" McMillan twisted a knob on his equipment, snarled something under his breath. "Wide-spectrum, high intensity - whoever's up there, they don't want anyone talking."

Damn it. "Good bet the major's up there." He didn't know how, but he'd have wagered his last paycheck on it. Where there was SG-1, there was explosions.

Heck, for all he knew, she'd commandeered one of those MiGs. Astrophysicist or not, Carter was a pilot. Even if she hadn't been up in a while. _Not sure I'd want Dr. Jackson for a co-pilot._

Not like she'd have had much choice. Say what you want about Dr. Jackson, he at least knew his Cyrillic.

_Hope he's with you, Major. 'Cause I don't have a clue_ where _he is._

* * *

  
_Evading pursuit._

Technical specs of the MiG-29 flowed through the back of Airwolf's consciousness; speed, turn radius, stall angle, limits of internal strain. Some of the same facts echoed from her pilots, calculating similarities and differences to try to tilt the odds in their favor.

Ignore the comparison. Stretch into the wind. Track every flow and eddy in the night, rippling skin sensors to cut turbulence to its barest tug. Seek any gust angling near her path; anything to gain a few more inches, a fraction more speed. Feel the trembling heat of turbo engines pumping air and fuel into furnace heat, struggling like a mountain runner's heart in thin, chill mist-

_Fog!_

Thick and gray, curling across her skin in moist chill as they raced down the plateau to colder northern lowlands. Not a problem, for one who saw by starlight and IR; still, it sent a thrill of triumph through her commander's veins. Why-?

Ah. _That_ calculation, matched with that - yes.

Close. It would be close.

Radar shrilled behind her, as a missile arrowed in for the kill.

_Incoming!_

"Sunburst! On my mark, drop jamming... Now!"

Hot, angry shrill, drawing nearer, nearer-

And they were over a last hill and down, dropping into the depths of a river marsh. Swamp reeds bent in their passage, rippling waves of carmine-edged green in the night.

Heat - light - pressure wave-

A burst of flame and thunder behind them, shattering the hill's crest to rocky shards.

_Missile decoyed_.

* * *

  
"Michael?" Daniel resisted the urge to reach over the back of the seat and wave a hand in front of the spy's face. There was something glazed in Michael's gaze, as if part of him were somewhere else...

More important, for a bunch of people supposedly running at Mach plus, they'd _stopped_.

_Not quite stopped_ , the archaeologist amended, seeing a ripple of water under the canopy as they whispered down-river. He turned toward Caitlin. "What are we doing?"

The redhead blinked, studied her displays. "Hawke?"

"Think we lost them."

"Wha-" _Never mind_ , Daniel thought. "How?"

"Like a fox." Archangel sounded incredibly weary. "They lost us, and they got their communications back. It'll take them a while to figure out we're not part of the wreck back there."

"Fog's all down the river," String noted. "Should cover us down to the Laptev Sea. Head a little farther north, we can catch a refuel on the edge of the Barents. And then we go home."

Daniel touched the side of Sam's face, checking her soft breathing. "Um - isn't this going to be a little hard to explain?"

"That depends." A hint of interest pushed Michael's weariness back. "I don't suppose you have your passports?"

Hand in Sam's uniform pocket, Daniel stopped. "What are you going to do with our passports?" he asked warily.

Archangel only smiled.

* * *

  
_"-to Room 118. Dr. Thorrson to Room 118-"_

Propped up in a visitor's chair, Daniel listened to the soothing Norse voice over the hospital intercom. Room was a bit chilly for his tastes, but a helpful nurse had loaned him a thick wool blanket, and he'd just - about - gotten - comfortable...

"Gngg... gaah-"

Daniel pried his eyes open. "Sam?"

Wrapped in linen sheets and a fresh hospital gown, Carter blinked blearily at him. "Wh'r?"

"Here." Daniel snagged the ceramic cup left on the bed-stand, helped her sit up. "They said you'd probably want water." _Think. Think._ He'd talked this over with Michael on their way in; tell as much of the truth as possible, without making their Russian hosts look like either A) idiots or B) homicidal. "We're in UNN... well, I suppose you'd call it Tromso General."

Sam gulped water, glanced up from her shaking hands. "What?"

"The University Hospital for Northern Norway," Daniel clarified. "We're in Norway."

Sam gaped at him. "How?"

"Dr. Jackson?"

_"Yes,"_ he answered automatically in Norse, nodding politely to the white-clad blonde in the doorway.

Wait a minute. The nurses he'd seen here wore blue scrubs. Or green...

_"I am Iduna."_ She handed him a small, tape-wrapped package. _"I believe these are yours."_

"What's that?" Sam peered past his shoulder as he sliced open the package.

"Our passports," Daniel said softly. Officially stamped; exit through Murmansk, entry through the Tromso airport. The archaeologist looked out a window, into the vanishing fog. "Thank you."

* * *

  
"...And the last thing I remember is getting pulled off the examination table, Sir," Major Sam Carter finished, sitting stiff and straight at the briefing room table under Cheyenne Mountain.

Colonel Jack O'Neill fiddled with a pencil. Glanced at Daniel. Frowned. _For a guy who nearly got kidnapped_ \- again! - _he looks way too cheerful._ "Daniel?"

"They said something about French Intelligence." The archaeologist spread empty hands. "I didn't want to ask too many questions."

Now, that would be a first. "You okay?" French spooks could be mean.

"I'm good. Really." A hint of humor sparkled in that blue gaze. "They were... pretty polite. Most of the time."

Oh yeah. When they hadn't been shooting everything that moved. Who did the French think they were, anyway?

Then again, they really _had_ been polite, giving Daniel a copy of their illicitly scanned data to bring home to the U.S. Who'd have thought?

_'Course, they might as well have stamped "We are CIA" across their passports_ , Jack thought sourly. _We know they didn't go through Murmansk. Russia knows they didn't go through Murmansk._

But neither side was about to admit it.

_Oh, yeah._ Jack mentally rolled his eyes. _Naberezhnyi? Who's he? We don't know any Naberezhnyi._

Right now, the offending documents were in the hands of military intelligence, who were apparently having massive interdepartmental disputes about the supposedly-forged stamps. Application area, intentional ink flaws, scrawl of witnessing official's signatures - sounded like heads were going to roll.

Jack had the sinking suspicion those stamps would be in his teammates' passports for good.

"Sorry I can't tell you more about how we got out of there." Daniel nudged up his glasses. "But it was late, I was _really_ tired, and all those blinking lights looked the same..."

"That's all right, Dr. Jackson. You're not an aviation expert," General Hammond said firmly. "But did you say it outran a MiG?"

"Not outran," Daniel said firmly. "They startled it, dodged, then got under cover. At least, I think that's what happened." He shuddered, slightly green. "Way under cover. There were leaves flying past the windshield. Ah... do you really need anything else? I think I just want to sit somewhere and translate Indo-Aryan declensions. For about a week."

"Thank you, Dr. Jackson. Major. That'll be all," the general stated. "At least we have something the White House can use to mollify the Russians after your... unusual departure."

Jack caught Teal'c's eye as the team filed out of briefing, hung back. "You sure it'll be enough, Sir?"

"Dr. Frasier's report verifies that the anesthetic gas is consistent with that used by French operatives," the general nodded. A wry grin crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Should be entertaining to see Franco-Russian relations go down for once."

"Have to agree with you there," Jack admitted. "But if the French know about the Stargate..."

"They've been heavily involved in investigating alien technology ever since H.E.A.T. stumbled across the Hivemind's Leviathan. Given France's declared position on American power, I'd prefer they went on being ignorant, but-" the general shrugged. "It could have been worse."

_North Korea, China, South Africa... oh yeah,_ Jack thought. _It could've been way worse._

"After all," Hammond added wryly, "If they'd been American intelligence operatives, we'd have had one hell of a lot of explaining to do."

Jack chewed on that thought as he strolled into the hall.

It tasted awful.

A dark presence loomed over him, lit only by a gleam of gold from his forehead. "O'Neill."

"Teal'c." Thank god, a voice of sanity. "Anything in there seem weird to you?"

A Jaffa brow rose. "To which anything did you refer, O'Neill?"

"Daniel," the colonel said firmly, planting a mental finger on that niggling feeling of unease. "Carter's upset. Anybody'd be freaked out, strapped down and almost vivisected, but Daniel..."

"Daniel Jackson's mood appears much improved."

"Right." Jack jabbed a finger into air. "He's been kidnapped, shot at, shot at people, almost drugged, hauled tail out of Russia the illegal way - and he's in a _good_ mood." It didn't add up. "Janet check his blood work?"

"He is, as you have said, clean." A slight tilt of head. "Perhaps he is merely responding well to the trust placed in him by those who assisted in Major Carter's rescue."

"Trust?" French spies? Not a chance. "Teal'c, remind me to bring you back some books on the SDECE. And _everybody_ trusts Daniel."

"Such a statement is inconsistent with what I have observed," the Jaffa noted, matching his stride down the hall.

Jack shot him a look. "Excuse me?"

"On several occasions when we were observing unknown forces from concealment, you or Major Carter have directly restrained Daniel Jackson and told him to 'hush'."

Jack snorted. "He likes to talk to people. He _always_ wants to talk to people."

"Dr. Frasier did not trust Daniel Jackson to refrain from harming us while he was under the influence of Ma'chello's creations."

"He was acting crazy..." Jack protested weakly.

"Colonel Makepeace, before his departure, was uncertain of the wisdom of providing Daniel Jackson a weapon."

Now that was firmer ground. "You gotta admit, he's not exactly an expert marksman."

"Nor are many of those on this base."

Jack's eyes narrowed. "You're working up to something here?"

"I am not 'working up' to anything, O'Neill," the Jaffa said bluntly. "I am still unfamiliar with the culture of Tau'ri soldiers. Yet I observe that Daniel Jackson is more often chastised for what he is not, than accepted for what he is."

Okay, now that really was crazy. "Daniel wouldn't last ten minutes as a spy."

Teal'c paused before the elevator, before punching the button that would take them to their barracks level. "Based on Major Carter's report, O'Neill, he already has."

* * *

  
_Better Part Of Valor ready for hard drive installation._  
_Note - Requires provided hardware to run_.  
_Install_ :

Daniel regarded the simple text box on his computer screen, absently tapped fingers against the edge of his desk. Install the program, and the Firm's custom-built software would burrow into his computer, creating a hidden, encrypted communications link between his files in the SGC, and... somewhere else.

Install the program, and shred the SGC's trust in tatters.

One click. One press of a button.

The CD case Michael Archangel had handed him lay open and empty on a stack of Sumerian cuneiform tablets. The small, discreet tape case of "provided hardware" sat in his desk drawer, ready for use.

Or ready to toss into the nearest trashcan.

_Jack. Teal'c. Sam_.

Sam, who'd almost died because the Pentagon wouldn't talk to the Firm. Because Russia didn't believe America would act for the good of the planet. Because the Russians _and_ the SGC couldn't believe Senator Kinsey would keep his word.

Because no one would trust anyone else.

_Enter_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations from Russian (transliterated from Cyrillic alphabet):
> 
> Horrasho - Good.  
> Da - Yes.  
> Daniil - Daniel.  
> Schtovui! - What's happening? (What the hell?)  
> Nyet - No.  
> Nyellzya - (It is) impossible.  
> Nekogda - Never.


End file.
